Unwilling Journeys
by BlueLantern'sLight
Summary: This is the diary of 18th Century slave Adwoa Mirembe, and her recording from capture to arrival in the Americas. Was written as a school project but I'm deciding to post it here. Based on what I learnt in History about the African slave trade of the 1700s.


11th November, 1784

Well, diary, I said I was hoping for some change in my life. I got it. But not in the way I was expecting. Not at all. You see, I am no longer a free woman.

I was woken this morning by the sound of sheer chaos. Screeches and wails pierced the air, as well as loud shots. I instinctively picked up my young child and rushed outside, only to be taken aback by the sight that met my eyes. A group of white men were barging through our village, taking those they fancied and slaughtering everybody else that got in their way. Parents and children were brutally ripped from each other's arms, despite the loud pleads from both. Even my own son was taken from me. He is merely two years old. Or was. From what I am led to believe the white men have killed him. They have taken my only child, an innocent infant, and ended his life. May the gods smite them down, I tell you. May the gods smite them down.

I was then taken myself. I did try and fight them, but they were so strong. Their grip was strong, and in the end I gave up on resisting. Grief had seemed to take its grasp at that point, when I realized that I was never to lay eyes on my precious child again. I just broke down sobbing, in complete despair as I was quite literally dragged into the mass of other captives. A rough wooden loop of branches was placed over my neck, forcing me to remain a constant distance from the woman in front of me. And as if that wasn't enough, shackles were secured around my wrists too. Animals are treated this way, not human beings. What do they think of us as, toys to be tossed around? I now have to walk, where I do not know, but I just have to keep moving. Someone in front of me stopped for a mere few seconds to catch their breath, and they were beaten hard, so I dare not stop. Just one foot in front of the other, it can't be too unbearable... right?

1st June, 1785

I'm sorry it has been so long, diary, but nothing at all has happened that is worth writing about. I am exhausted, miserable, although also somewhat numb. Apart from the uncomfortable few hours of sleep I have gotten most nights it has been walking, walking and more walking. Left foot forward, right foot forward. This is ridiculous – I was not born to be treated like this. The white men have still not told us where we are going; actually, they might have, but their words make no sense. They are not from around here, so their language is not the same as ours. This has driven me into further depression, because I can now hear no one who speaks my native tongue. Most of those in this chain of my people have not dared speak, and those that have tried to yell and fight get hurt.

As we've walked, the white men have gathered others into the group of captives. There must be a hundred of us at least, maybe more. I gave up counting long ago.

Quick update: we seemed to have arrived at the place they wanted us to walk to. The yoke, which was the loop of branches I mentioned previously, has been removed from my neck, although the shackles have not. I am currently cramped into a small cell with the rest of the captives. I'm lucky enough to be quite near to the barred door, so I can see the outside world. The ground is soft yellow sand, and beyond that is a huge expanse of blue water that sparkles in the fading light of the sinking sun. I watch until the masters tell me to stop staring, but once their gaze is off me I return to watching, being lulled slightly by the rhythmic lapping of waves on the shore. At least I don't have to walk for a little while. I can give my blistered feet a rest.

2nd June 1785

So much for being able to keep watching the water.

A giant boat came this morning to come and get us. It is absolutely massive, I tell you, as tall as some of the great trees I have seen back home. At first, I was quite curious as to what would be inside this whopping vessel, and I had a sense of almost excited anticipation about me. However, those feelings only lasted a few moments before fear and anxiety re-clouded my soul. If these white men had treated us so foully for the past 6 and a half months, what was going to make them consider us any more human now? I knew I should have been petrified, but the terror was at a surprisingly low level – I guess it was because I had been exposed to such hellish events these past months that I assumed this boat couldn't be much worse. But boy was I wrong. This is a _lot _worse.

It is hot, and it is stuffy. I am crammed on a shelf, shackled to the woman next to me, with many people above and below. At least, I think it's like that. The darkness is pretty absolute, so I am not all too sure. All I can see are many silhouettes and the odd sliver of light. Of hope that seems all too far away to be true.

I now truly feel like trash. Animals wouldn't be packed like this. Ha, no way. I would love to look into the sorry minds of these white men, know their thoughts, their attempted justifications at what they do. Do they have any pity? Obviously not. Anyone with any respect for their fellow human beings wouldn't pack them like dead meat. They would have some sort of sensible judgement. I just pray that the gods will either kill them, or show them some sense. Just so I can be free.

9th June 1785

I thought that when I first got onto the ship things were bad enough. But apparently it is possible for the worst to get worse.

It is hard to breathe in here now. The stench is horrendous, as people have begun to get ill. I emphasise my earlier point of the masters having no pity; they have done nothing sympathetic towards the sick. In fact, they've done the opposite. On the rare occasions that they venture down here, they will shout at anyone who happens to uncontrollably vomit in their direction. They can't help it, the poor things, so why on earth are they getting the blame?! It's hardly like us people on the higher levels can reach the few, already full waste buckets that are placed in about three points under here, is it? We are all shackled together, after all.

Once a day we are allowed out for a short amount of time. Once, and that is all. They make us walk around, give us one of the simple, tasteless meals we have to eat as otherwise we would starve. It's like with the water. Water has been delivered three times so far, and when it comes below deck we turn into animals. It does not surprise me; we are all so, so thirsty, it's untrue. All sanity is lost when our raw instincts are calling to us.

I can sense this daily outing is not out of compassion; they want us to remain alive. I believe they want to sell us, otherwise, what would be the point of taking in the first place? From what I've heard, a few people have thrown themselves overboard already, due to the fact that they don't wish to live through this anymore. I, however, am going to keep fighting through this despair, despite the odds. I may be in what has been one of my lowest states of despair yet, but I'm going to cling to this hope. This hope that things will get better, that that day will come when the hurricanes of grief pass and the sun of freedom will come.

23rd June 1785

I am currently trembling on my rack, unable to sleep. I can feel the tears falling, and I feel unclean, violated. It turns out the white men now use us for their pleasure as well.

It had been early evening, and I was somewhat perplexed when one of the masters unshackled me and led me up onto the deck. I had already had my daily time in the fresh air, so what was going on? Of course, I wasn't going to argue – any chance at the ability to breathe clearly was good. Any chance to see the light, even if it was just by the few scattered scars in the darkening dusk sky, was some relief to me.

My moments where I felt almost free were quickly ended, though. I was taken into the bed chamber of the captain and had a blade put to my throat and I was yelled at, forced to sign a piece of paper. It was only after that that I worked out it was a note of consent. A note of consent for something that if I'd have previously known about it I would never have given my agreement. I was toyed with, harassed, used for these sick people's pleasure for what seemed like an eternity. Afterwards, I was shoved back under decks, shackled again, and left. They did not care that I was sobbing and screaming the whole time. They did not care that it hurt me, both physically and mentally. They did not care that I felt sick, helpless, and ready to die. That strength I had a couples of weeks ago is quickly waning, and I'm not sure if, and when, it'll return. I don't want to live like this anymore. I want to go home.

21st July 1785

6 weeks now, I've been aboard this ship. I am absolutely stunned that I am alive.

I have not been pulled up to the captain's quarters again, thank goodness. I reckon that if I had, I would have ran and thrown myself off of the ship. Admittedly, the day after that first event I nearly did end it all. The woman who I was first shackled next to, Iolande, is from my home country, so we have been able to secretly talk every now and again. I told her of my plan, and that for it to go through we'd both have to jump, but she managed to persuade me otherwise. She still had hope in her, and she kept me sane. But sadly, about a week ago, she succumbed to illness and she died. I have now made it my responsibility to stay strong for her. The night before she became too ill to speak, she told me that there is always hope somewhere, even in the darkest of nights. And I listened to her. I believe.

Many others have died now as well. I myself have vomited a couple of times, although it mostly seems to be because of the evil odours down here rather than some life-threatening disease. I do believe I contracted something at some point, but I have mostly recovered. I have a strong will, I do, and I wasn't going to let myself become too ill, especially as the white men throw out all the really weak ones. It only confirms my suspicions that they shall sell us at the end of all this. They don't want damaged stock, so they throw out the bad ones. Eurgh, I shudder at the thought of what still reels through their twisted minds.

Wait... what's this? Am I hearing this right? I think so... The people that have just come back down from deck are saying they can see land. Not much, and it may take another couple of days before we reach it, but they can see land! A loud cheer is rippling through the crowds from those who still have the strength to speak, and my voice is joining them. The end is nearing! We'll soon get out of this pit and be able to stretch, breathe, be healthy once more! I can't believe it; my misery is actually starting to lift now. The hope Iolande was on about, it is here! I'm going to do it, I'm going to survive. I'm going to make it. At last.

22nd July, 1785

Land! Oh sweet, sweet land! My feet are on the soft sand again! I can't actually believe I've survived this against all the odds. Many died, but I did not. I feel especially lucky as I am one of the first to be 'unloaded'. A lot of others are going to be shipped off further away, I think.

I know that my freedom won't be fully restored yet, but who knows? Maybe one day it will be. Only time can tell, but I'm sure that day will come.


End file.
